And Still They Played On

They weren’t going to make it, of that John Hume was sure. There were too few lifeboats, too much panic, and too cold of water. When he had walked across the pier onto the “unsinkable” ship four days prior, twenty-one year old Hume could never have guessed that this would be his fate. He tore open the door, peering down the hallway as people rushed to and fro. Across the hall, Percy used his body to prop open the door as he hefted his cello in front of him. With a grim, hopefully reassuring smile, Hume grabbed his violin case and headed up to the deck. It was bitterly cold, the frigidness of the night sky providing no warmth as he made his way over to the piano perched upon the deck, where Theodore already sat, playing a church hymn that made Hume smile despite himself. He set his case on the ground, pulled up a chair, and began tuning his violin.

People filed past the gathering orchestra, frightened children clinging to their mother’s skirts as the crew herded them towards the lifeboats. The crew, frantically trying to hide their fear, continued to direct the flow of traffic. The sound of footsteps approaching forced Hume to peel his eyes away from the massing crowd. Around him, the other musicians sat tensely, fidgeting nervously with their instruments as they waited for the concertmaster to arrive. Tense moments of silence stretched on as the first lifeboat was lowered into the water. Eventually, Wallace walked out of the doorframe and took his seat among his bandmates. He caught the eye of every member of the orchestra, nodding to acknowledge their shared fate.

“Okay boys,” he whispered into the night. “Let’s do what we came here to do.” Like soldiers the band hoisted their instruments into position, and Wallace pulled his bow down into the first few notes. The band immediately picked up on the tune, a simple folk tune that Hume had heard in times long past, back when he was young–well, younger than he is now. One by one, the musicians joined in.

Hume’s fingers glided across the strings like the gentle lapping of waves. He closed his eyes, trying to drown out the shouts of panic coming from all around him. Music, he knew, was like a balm for a wounded heart. The deep soothing twinge of the cellos around him reassured him, and his bow danced along to the music it was creating, calming and reassuring. In the face of all the chaos, Hume lost himself in the swells of the melody. The bridge began to fill with more and more desperate passengers, but still Hume kept his eyes closed, allowing the rhythm of their pounding footsteps guide the melodies they played. Effortlessly, they flowed from song to song, a concert prepared for a voyage gone right; now played for a voyage gone so horribly wrong. His eyes drifted open and Hume caught the eye of a young boy. Tears streamed down his face as his mother pulled him into the chaotic crowd attempting to push their way onto the few vessels that remained. After being lifted into the lifeboat, the boy peered over at Hume once more and waved. Without missing a beat, Hume inclined his head just slightly, and watched as the child slowly descended from view. A lurch threw him out of his stupor as the boat rocked dangerously to the left. Hume reached out his hand to steady John, whose large base found footing once more, and together, the band continued.

Notes like prayers whispered in the early morning hours of some monastery drifted across the wind, a silent plea for help that Hume was painfully aware would go unanswered. There was a sickening crack as the ship split in two, but still he played on, imaging it as the reverberations of a large drum rather than the sealing of his fate he knew it in his heart to be. Icy cold water sloshed over his shoes. It crept up his legs. The tremors in his body caused his fingers to falter ever so slightly, but years of training couldn’t be overridden by the encroaching embrace of death. As their half of the boat lurched again, Hume watched in horror as Georges tumbled from his chair and disappeared into the black water below. Hume’s breaths became shorter as the reality of their situation became more real. He felt a gentle nudge in his ribs, and looked over at the rest of the band, who had paused to watch the scene unfold. Forcing his lungs to cooperate, he pulled the instrument back underneath his chin, and the music swelled once more. One by one, the instruments faded away, their lingering tunes lost into the brink. The water had reached up to his waist by now, and the tense tugging of the undercurrent as the ship was sucked below let him know that the concert was at an end. As he pulled the bow down on his final note, Hume turned his face up to Heaven and felt the freezing water swallow him whole.

Of the eight orchestra members who played upon a sinking ship, Hume was one of only three whose bodies were recovered. The rest remain entombed in the freezing waters that claimed so many lives. Originally designed as a quintet and a trio, in the face of disaster, the musicians united their musical talents to provide calm and a sense of normalcy in the midst of tragedy. All eight of the orchestra members were under the age of thirty-four. Many had families and loved ones who had planned to see them on either side of the voyage that would be devastated by the news of the Titanic’s demise. For Hume, it was his fiancée, Mary Costin, who several months after the Titanic sank gave birth to their child. As second class passengers, all of these men may have had the opportunity to get on lifeboats, but chose instead to leave room for other fleeing passengers. Their sacrifice did not go unnoticed. As Titanic survivor Lawrence Beesley recounted of the events that changed the world, “Many brave things were done that night, but none were more brave than those done by men playing minute after minute as the ship settled quietly lower and lower in the sea.”